Berlin or bust

Flying lessons

Four in the morning Friday, I realized: I MUST see the Ex.

This letter that I've been writing in my head every night for the past six weeks? That I have been outlining, revising, proofreading, power-pointing? Translating from English to German and back again?

It is not a letter at all. It is a conversation.

Face him, I thought. Tell him what you believe.

Not because I think I can sway him. Not because I even want to. But because I want him to know. Precisely where I stand.

And I must say it. Or else this spine of mine might forever be soft as taffy.

Yesterday, at Cafe Sowohlalsauch, I reported this to my Serbo-Croatian literary hot stuff friend. "It came to me in the night," I told her. "Immediately I felt strong. And tall." Except that I was lying down. 

"Then you must," she said. 

"Or I will never be free of him."

Across the street, suddenly, a sheet of raindrops, caught in the sunlight. Where we sat: entirely dry.

"It's God!" We laughed. "Sending us a message." And I think we both believed it.

*                     *                      *

Today, at Sowohlalsauch, I made the same report to Dylan. "I want him to harbor no illusions," I said, "of what I think about his reasoning."

"But..." She looked at me so kind, in her pretty pale blue blouse. "Do you really believe he did the wrong thing?"

I paused.

"Because, you can do so much better."  Her eyes were limpid as sky.

I paused again.

She launched into his shortcomings. As any good girlfriend should. She didn't need to.

"You're right," I jumped in.

Funny. How, for the first time, I actually believed it.

The waiter brought Dylan her coffee. My cup was already half-drained. Black, with sweetener.

"You can take my milk," I told him. And handed him my mini-pitcher of foamy white, full.

He balanced it on his tray, stepped away.

"Those eyebrows!" I murmured. A forest. "Those lips!" Cresting waves. 

Dylan chuckled. "You said that milk thing sooo flirtatious."

"Really?" 

*                     *                      *

Dylan has a plan for me. Not involving the waiter. Rather, her roommate. Leonine forehead. Silvering mane. He is an Ossie. You do not realize he is handsome. Until suddenly: My. God! Is that his testosterone that bowled me over?

He needs a girlfriend.

"Doesn't he have issues?"

"I think he is afraid," she said.

I shook my head. I am through with the hesitant. The meek. The undecided. You better chase me, buster. "I'm not doing like I did with the Ex." 

Besides, the waiter's smile is probably all I can handle right now. That and the weekly sightings of Secret Agent Man. Square jaw. Buff as brick. A vigorous gentleman indeed!

He asked me to the movies. In a totally vague, non-committal, platonic-ish sort of way. Which is just right.

That was last week, right around the same time my holistic healer handed me the snow-white swan feathers. The next day I discovered I was one of the few authors reading at the Madonna book release party (an honor!). And the literary agent I'd sent part of my memoir to? She reported being "intrigued" (holy cow!). She wants to see more.

Hmm, I thought, this whole "wobbly before you fly" thing... My healer might have a point.

Then, of course, Mr. Epstein Barr laid me flat.

There goes that.

Still, the air currents sure were nice. While they lasted.

He was breathing through the keyhole

He was knocking his brass-knuckled knock.

"Lilan," he called. "Yoo-hoo!"

I ignored him.

When I went out, I saw his footprint on the welcome mat.

He must have lost patience. As men so often do. Yesterday he busted down the door. A single well-aimed kick.

We danced a round in the living room, me and Herr Epstein Barr.

Now I lie flat.

Years ago I invited him in. Years ago, I thought: A man's touch, mere titillation. I did not understand: A single well-aimed kiss, treachery. Years ago, my heart, whole, unjaded. This body still my own.

Now I see. He will come. He will go. He will take you. He will break you. And there is no fighting.

Who knew...

That in Germany it's unheard of to knock on a neighbor's door and ask to borrow the ironing board?

You should have seen the looks I got.

Like I'd requested a pair of their underwear.

Puh-leez.

Unsteady earth

I have to find a new apartment and move. Like now.

I have to feed the hungry piggy bank. With freelance work. But how? And where?

I have to bury Him. And beat the Virus. And fall asleep before 4 a.m. One of these friggin' days.

I have to decide: Why. Am I here. In Berlin. At all.

Also: I have to fly to San Francisco. Mom needs me. For reals.

Last Thursday I saw my  holistic healer. I am lost, I said. No solid ground beneath my feet. Nothing in my life not unstable.

She looked at me kindly. She said: It's always most wobbly right before we fly.

Then she handed me two snow-white swan feathers. And sent me on my way.

Saturday dusk till Sunday near-dawn

That's how long it took to celebrate my Serbo-Croatian literary hot stuff friend's 35th birthday. And her sixth book. Poetry, just released.

I arrived at nine. Gave knee-high sunflowers. The quiet blonde who climbed the stairs behind me, apricot-hued roses.

Everyone cooed at my silver shoes. You could tell, they said, that they came from New York. Berlin? Never!

Smokers crowded on the balcony. I mooched one off a gallery owner. I joked with the barrel-torso'd sculptor. "We adore red wine," murmured his wife. A Turkish-German poet.

Balkan pop songs played inside. Those who could, wiggled their shoulders.

Literary hot stuff's sister flitted from room to room. Two years younger, a whole head taller. From Frankfurt.

The photographer made a mushroom quiche.Yogi D. made Milchreis, with apple chutney. (Just like New Year's!)

I sipped water. In the kitchen. And learned of the Ex's iPhone: zer-quetsched, zer-splintered. As an iPhone's meant not to do. I cackled. "Harboring ill will?" asked Yogi D. Oh. Maybe.

Artist Bella baked the chocolate Torte. Happy Birthday! we sang. With accent. At the precise hour of birth: half-past midnight. 

Writer Tobias ate two slices. Beside me, on the red sofa. Bitter at a girl who'd once betrayed him.

Literary hot stuff opened gifts. A black beret from her sister. With sparkles. She looked a Parisian wonder.

The clock struck 3. "Oh man," Tobias moaned, "I have to go to a brunch tomorrow." "Me too!" I cried. "All the way in Biesdorf."

"Life is tough," laughed the Turkish-German poet, "when you're living in Berlin."

The photographer gave me a ride. And I learned: The quiet blonde? A famous talk show host cum crime novelist. The woman in the bold black-white dress? A famous lawyer who defends the rights of Turkish wives. The photographer herself? Award-winning -- and heading to a famous retreat once inhabited by the Turkish-German poet. "Take the yellow room," she'd urged. "It's the biggest."

Good thing I had no clue. Me and my stumbling Deutsch: Uh, used to edit in Manhattan, writing a book now, never had one published, not so sure why I'm in Berlin at all...

Four a.m., and I hobbled down Danziger. Heels catching between cobblestones. Surprisingly un-bothered that I'd had nothing more to recommend me than my shimmering Stuart Weitzmans. That and my wide-open love-you-before-I-even-know-you American manner.

That's not nothing, you know. Not in Berlin. Not by a mile.

Hardly at all

That's how much I thought of the Ex yesterday.

And I wrote not a single bitter e-mail to him in my mind.

Oh hallelujah. Thank Jesus Mary and Joseph, Allah and Mohammed.

Now I am sitting at Sowohlalsauch, a table away from Secret Agent Man. Who spoke to me for a whole entire hour. I think he likes the sound of his own voice. But whatever.

Life is good.

Eighty-nine Degrees

And I have the chills.

Goosebumps glazed in sweat. Nice.

Mr. Epstein Barr, come a-calling. How I hate him.

So? he says. Lilan dares meet a girl named Juliet late on a Monday night? She dares sip mineral water beside the Spree, on a beach of shipped-in sand, at a club called Kiki Blofeld? She dares take public transport there and back? Hike up platform stairs and down? Transfer from Tram to U-Bahn? I think not.

No matter that Juliet paints 30-foot installations, all muscle and whimsy. No matter that she has a face one wants to frame, cheekbones of an Icelandic princess. And that her father is one of 18 siblings, son of a Mormon in Salt Lake City.

Mr. Epstein Barr does not care.

How shall we off him, this mean old man? How shall we teach him that the sofa is not where I belong? Not now, summer at its keenest, the forging of new friendships vital as breath.

*                 *                  *

Loneliness greets me mornings, bedside. That's my other guest, unwanted, grim as the Reaper. He walks me to the bathroom sink, glowers as I brush and floss, lotion my cheeks and neck. Can it kill you, I wonder each day, loneliness such as this?

I curl black mascara on each lash. I put on a pretty dress. I go out. Red shoes wobble on cobblestones.

My hooded guest clasps my elbow. Think of the Ex, he hisses. Pick the past apart. Why he left. What his words meant. Whether you should have seen it.

With every step, a twist of the mind's kaleidoscope. The pieces of the breakup tumble, re-settle. If I look at it from this angle? From that? Analyze his childhood? My own?

Talk to the Ex, my hooded guest croons. Tell him he's wrong. Tell him he's broken. Expose all the truths he's too blind to see.

I mutter all the way down Ryke Strasse. Planning the inevitable run-in. Words hard. Fiery. Desperate.

I keep thinking these talks will bring me peace. Funny. 

I take myself to Sowohlalsauch. Order bottled water. A decaf. Manage, unexpectedly, to pump out the memoir synopsis I've been putting off for months. I'm giddy with my own productivity. What was it I thought would kill me this morning? How could anything harm me now?

Or: I meet my Serbo-Croatian literary hot-stuff friend at Cafe Gotlob. Her hands tremble. She got an e-mail from the ex. Jesus, I know her pain. Its blood, its pulse point. Precisely. I touch her shoulder. I would cup her heart, twitching like a fallen bird, if I could.

Instead I talk fast, I talk vigorous, I bounce from Paula Fox to my own mother to an American painter named Juliet. Anything. For only in the pauses will she remember, only when I stop to breathe can it ache.

You see. How everything shifts, everything changes. Without even noticing it, I have shaken them off, my hooded guest, my invisible Ex.

They will be back tomorrow. They will be back, even, in a few hours. I will do battle. All over again.

Seething. Knotted.

That is why, I beg you, Mr. Epstein Barr, do not come. Not this month. Two I can wrestle. Three? No.

I don't think so.

Single white female seeking...

A wise and craven friend has recently advised that I not look for love. Rather: "You should take this time to seek a vigorous gentleman for yourself." He insisted: "Will do you good. Berlin awaits!"

Ha! You try stirring the blood of the Northern European male. Are they reptiles? Perhaps it's time for a jaunt to Italy. Or even Moabit. Where the mighty Turks roam, appetites unguarded.

Don't repeat this to my mom.

I skyped her this evening. I told her bla bla bla, then: "I'm meeting someone later tonight."

She: sputtery noises, words chewed-in half

Me: Hello?

She: You are just-- It's only-- You will be having a drink--

Me: What?

She: Just a few hours with him? Nothing more--

Me: Mom! Her name is Juliet.

She: Oh!

Me: I mean, come on.

She: I thought-- I couldn't tell from that blog post-- I worried--

Me: Tongue in cheek, Mom, tongue in cheek.

She (laughs): It seems I am missing both.

For the record, friends, I might talk a big game. But at the end of the day, I am so much more Carrie than Samantha. If only I had the Manolo Blahniks to prove it.

None of which means anything to my TV-allergic mother. Please, will someone on your side of the Atlantic kindly explain it? Oh, and while you're at it, gently slip in the reminder that I'm thirty-six years and seven months old. Thanks!

Ninety-one Degrees

And there's no such thing as air-conditioning.

I am dying.

My Serbo-Croation literary hot stuff friend and I are quite sure we shall expire on today's fiery pavement. And the men who failed us?

They will be crippled with regret. Forever.

Cool.

The Tao says...

Express yourself completely,
then keep quiet.
Be like the forces of nature:
when it blows, there is only wind;
when it rains, there is only rain;
when the clouds pass, the sun shines through.

Which is why, two hours after gripping sofa's back, I can rush to meet Dylan at Cafe Sowohlalsauch. Not even realizing that the last time I was here, it was me and him.

I carry a tall red umbrella. Ten minutes of downpour before I walked out the door. Now it's back to dry sharp sun.

Still, both Dylan and I are sunk a little low. I have bad news to report from home. She bemoans her own inertia. I sip tomato juice. She rolls a cigarette. Then we tell each other scandalous tales. This always lifts the spirits. One lover on 83rd and Amsterdam,  the other on 84th, both within a day. And the Danish girls, doing things better left undone, in a hostel dorm room.

We eye the man beside us. Bench-presser's build, hair shorn uncharacteristically close for Berlin.

"He is beautiful," says Dylan in English.

"In a Frat-boy way," I offer.

He leans over. "Excuse me." Startling us with flawless British. "Do you mind if I put this here?" His bread basket, our table space. To give him room for his laptop.

Dylan says sure. I say no. Eyelashes bobbing. I can't help it.

He balances basket at table's very edge. We set our own bread basket beside it. "So it doesn't get lonely," says Dylan. Though we worry: Our loaf is so much bigger. Will his feel inadequate?

Somehow this is hilarious.

Later we learn: He is German. (No! we insist, You are English!) He is a federal agent. (Are you undercover? Dylan wants to know.)

Sadly, no. German feds go plain-clothes. His job, he assures us, is "very bureaucratic."

"Are you both authors?" he asks.

"Writers," we correct him -- but there is my Madonna book, on the table. "Author now, I guess." I laugh.

Why are we here, he queries. And before you know it, we've discussed Fullbrights and the CIA, Britta filters, the problems with translation. Also: the hairdo-decimating hardness of Berlin water.

Finally we girls rise to go. "Come with me to AktivMarkt?" I ask Dylan. "They have FantaZero!"

"Ooh! Yes!"

The Fed pulls a face. "Soda! Why soda?"

"It's a treat!" says Dylan.

"Sometimes you need your chemicals," I chime.

He is appalled. But smiling. "You are so American."

And we girls trip away, hormones popping.

"Guess where I am going Every Day?" I crow. "Guess what's my new writing cafe?"

Dylan cracks up.

Then I announce: "So, I am going to fall in love again in 2009." Her eyebrows climb. "But before then, I will take three lovers."

Now I crack up. Because I know the sound God makes when we humans make our plans. It goes something like this:

Ha ha ha.

Still, it's nice to dream. Nice to forget. And nice to get all wiggly in the stomach just from ribbing a brawny federal agent on a hot Saturday afternoon in July.

I mean, how Tao can you get?

Poems I am not allowed to read

...on a hot Saturday afternoon in July.

But so hard not to. For they are Japanese. And very short

I cannot ask you
when, exactly, you plan to leave.
Surely, when you go,
like a single drop of dew,
I will vanish from the world.

--Anonymous

Now the nights grow cold
and cold winds return to howl.
With you gone,
my whole life is torn by winds.
I wonder: Do you sleep alone?

--Anonymous

How long before the missing leaves me? How many more Saturdays: walk into the living room, stop short, a cry ripped from the guts? Hands gripping sofa-back. Because otherwise you might just tip. Over.

It's Carole King who did it. Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to make it home again... A CD from friend Maxine. Songs for a busted heart. It's so far and out of sight...

Don't tell me this isn't a death. Don't tell me this hurts less.

He was here. He is gone. I cannot have him back. And whether he was good for me or not: irrelevant.

I will rage until the bitter melts. I will cry until there's no more wet.

And I will love again.

Only now. I cannot yet imagine.

My beautiful Boy.

"Ich bin ein Obamer"

Wait, he didn't say that.

But he did say: Now is the moment for this, Now is the moment for that, Now is the moment for something else too.

I can't remember what, exactly.

19:15 and I was watching him live on the super-screen in the Tiergarten. His chin was cut off by the bicycle handlebars I was peering past, his cheek sliced by a tree to my right, his entire face blocked whenever the German teenager in front of me leaned toward his father and asked: Was ist "genocide"? Heisst "nuclear weapons" Atomkraft? Und "polar ice caps"?

An ambulance bellowed, silencing certain words altogether.

I would have had a better view at home. Still, it was cool. And unexpected.

At 14:00, I lay on the holistic practitioner's table. She massaged my feet, my hands. I confessed ambivalence to be back in Berlin. New York was vacation. Now, real life: Find an apartment; return to the book; march through heartbreak. "I feel as if I am standing on a diving board. Unwilling to jump." Then I laughed. "Oh, for God's sake, I just got back two days ago. I'm allowed to hesitate."

At 15:48, I hugged my Serbo-Croation literary hot-stuff friend hello. A table in the sun, a restaurant called Suedwind. We spoke of Denise Levertov, Sex and the City, Radovan Karadžic, bad e-mails from exes. I ordered the Nicoise. Two hours later and my mouth was sore, but my soul was soothed. She said, "I'm so honored that you'd meet me instead of hearing your countryman speak." "Oh?" I said. "Is that now? I thought it was yesterday." What I did not tell her was: You are one of my new favorite people in the world. How could I forgo this?

At 18:50, I boarded the U7. A fellow passenger said the name Obama. And: "I'm cutting it close." I started: "Oh, is he speaking now?" "Fifteen minutes." The passenger was tall. He had an accent. "Are you American?" I asked. "From San Francisco." I grinned big. "No way!" He'd lived 30 years in Hannover; his wife was German, a journalist, here to cover Barack. "I'm coming with you!" I declared. "I mean, if you don't mind..." Which he didn't. We hopped off the subway and strode his long-legged pace as close as we could to the Tiergarten's center.

It was crazy crowded, as much English in the air as German, snack stands serving Bier and Bratwurst to the erudite masses.

Obama showed twenty minutes late, just like us. "I look a little different than other American leaders who've appeared in Berlin." The crowd laughed. He talked lots about the Berlin Airlift. The alliance, back then, of the U.S. and Germany. The need for the same in the future. Also, Berlin's ability to understand, as few other cities do, the meaning of freedom. The crowd cheered.

"He's good," said my tall companion.

"He's amazing," said a man with a camera. His eyes were starry. "He is a vessel and we fill him."

What do the Germans think? I couldn't help but wonder. His style too preacherly? Too typically American in its grand and sweeping statements? And what lies behind his right and rhythmic words? Has he planned the specifics?

Because he was impressive. But I'm just no good at hero-worship.

The man with the camera, I learned later, managed Obama's air travel. "He's gonna win, there's no doubt."

A curly-haired guy stepped up. "But tell me, were you not this certain four year's back?"

"Oh no," said the camera man. "I managed Kerry's tour too. He was a good man. Good to me, always. But he was an elitest. He couldn't help it. It was the world he grew up in."

The conversation pulsed forward, carried by the camera man's convictions. "The young will vote for Obama!"  And: "American's vote with their pocketbooks. Obama's making the money. Not McCain." Also: "McCain's just off. Something unbalanced about that guy."

"The Google," I offered. I was wedged between the bicycle frame and his zoom lens. No choice but to partake.

"This is the beginning of 25 years of progressive politics!" declared the camera man.

"I hope you are a prophet," I said. And meant it.

The curly-haired guy was not convinced. "What happens when Obama spends eight years butting up against corporate interests?"

At this, I decided, it was time to disentangle myself.

I gave my blog URL to the tall passenger. "You'll appear in it for sure."

Then I joined the current of departing fans. White and black and olive, pairs and trios, families, friends. It was energizing to be among so many strangers. And yet. I could feel my Epstein Barr chills kicking in. I could feel something else too. Thunderclouds gathering. Behind my ribs.

Five weeks ago I would have called the Boy. I would have left nothing out. My own words, shared, would have meant I belonged. Somewhere. To someone.

Today? It's like I'm a newcomer all over again. Fresh to Berlin. And solo. Building up my life as if he'd never been.

I am assuming there is a reason for this.

Now is the moment, said Obama, now is the moment. To begin.

Pieces of me

Emily took the white teapot.

The Sicilian-American lathe enthusiast took the seven-foot bookshelf. My father helped him carry it down to the car-service van.

The car-service-van driver took the lounge chair.

The mailman was leaning against the neighbor's stoop. "Where you been all year?" he said. He took the rotating space heater. Two hours later he returned with a friend and a car. And took the dresser.

The tall getting-divorced man took the pasta pot. The red bowls with the chipped lips. The knives. The forks. The Britta water filter. "Yes, yes!" he said to each item I held up. "I need it all." He also took the super metal fan. "It's loud," I warned. Later he emailed: "I now have some idea what Pan Am's Clipper service to Buenos Aires sounded like, circa 1938."

His daughter was a blaze of light. Tiny for seven. She took the bouncy ball.

My mother took the black-and-white striped jersey.

My father took the heating pad. The Sierra Designs backpack. Mosby's Medical Dictionary.

Strangers took the futon frame. When I wasn't looking.

Katherine took the black brocade coat.

Photographer K. took four pairs of designer jeans. Three skirts. Two jackets. Four brown belts. Two scarves. The purple sparkle sweater. The white thigh-highs. A polka dot dress. Pretty much my entire fifteen-pounds-ago wardrobe. Which made me happy. And her even more so. 

Susan took the silver bracelet. A gift from a Jersey boy long ago.

Connie took the green-stoned ring. And two Ziplock baggies full of porcelain beads, mismatched earrings, dangly thingies. "Oh goodie!" she said. "Stuff to play with." She showed up at my going-away gathering wearing a blue glass pendant. Which I found in Greece.

Rosemary took the electric pencil sharpener. The Glustick. The Sephora shower gel. The lucky bamboo the office sent me when I had surgery. The blue Julius monkey backpack, too.

Jane 1 took the pink Julius monkey backpack.

Jane 2 took the mega-power cord. Proud to be carting it around on a Sunday.

Lynn took the tiny bobble-headed turtles. From Isla Mujeres. 

Two-year-old Charlie played with the live bobble-headed turtles. Swimming in the bathtub, in the cafe's garden.

Josee took the stereo. She is a cantor.

No one took the scissors. "They're rusty," complained Jane 1. No one took the steel-toed boots either.

I was twenty-seven when I bought them, hair dyed black, a rainy day in London. I lugged them in a Sierra Designs backpack, all the way through Europe. Wore them with overalls in Berkeley. On snowy days in Brooklyn.

Salvation Army will sell them. A stranger  will lace them up the calf. Never knowing their story. Or mine.

But that is okay.

Because look! In Bensonhurst. In Williamsburg. On 70th and Broadway. On 83rd and Riverside. In Windsor Terrace. On the F train. Walking down Amsterdam. In a bedroom closet somewhere between Avenues B and C.

I am nowhere near New York. And yet I've never left.

Madonna! Madonna! Madonna!

My book is out, kids.

Okay, not my book. Rather, the book in which my essay "(Selbst) Bekenntnisse auf einer Tanzflaeche: An American Girlhood" appears. Translated, unfortunately for all you non-Deutschies, into German.

But if you buy the book, you can touch the pretty cover. And you can see my name! In the Table of Contents! No translation necessary. Holy cow.

What the hell am I doing in Berlin?

That was my overriding thought for the duration of the taxi trip from Tegel Airport to Ryke Strasse.

So much for knowing that Berlin is "where I belong."

It was a lot less of a stretch to know that when he-who-I-now-hope-is-wracked-with-pain- daily (yeah-not-very-enlightened-of-me-but-I-just-can't-friggin-help-it) was in the picture.

Today, outside baggage claim, I looked around. There was no one the sight of whom quickens my heart, bubbles my joy to the surface.

I wanted that one person. The one you tell everything to. (Oh my god one passenger collapsed over the Atlantic they called for a doctor in Dutch and the stewardesses sprinted past me I thought he might die but he was okay I had the chicken and the man next to me wore sunglasses for the whole six hours...)

I did solo-battle with my three very heavy black bags (framed art, hammer, wrench, knee-high Frye boots, Phillips screwdriver will do that). I fought my way to the taxi stand.

And you know what?

I was MAD.

Fuming.

Not this again! This "no one to meet the single girl at the airport" life!

I thought: God is a bastard.

I had just spent two hours reading the Tao Te Ching. Which seems not to have helped.

If you realize that all things change,
there is nothing you will try to hold on to.

Also:

If you open yourself to loss,
you are at one with loss
and you can accept it completely.

Oh, shut up.

Fortunately, Dylan came by later. "Let's have dinner!" she said. Saving me from the sinkhole that is my sofa.

She doesn't know what the hell she is doing in Berlin either.

She said, "It is the first time in five years I haven't had a plan."

I said, "Exactly!"

She said, "There is only one thing to do."

I waited, chopsticks poised.

"Wait," she said. "And pray like crazy." She laughed. "I mean, what I'm asking is, What am I supposed to be doing right now?"

"Yes!" I cried.

The Tao says:

Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?

It is helpful to have friends who are as smart as the Tao. The Tao is a good read, but it can't give big hugs. Or join you for Vietnamese down the street. Just when you need it most.

So long farewell...

This morning I was kneeling on the stained carpet, before the gaping maw of my suitcase, and the tears came suddenly. A fast loud thrust of a cry.

Then it was over.

There is surely a canyon of grief in me about leaving New York. To be ending this era of my life: It's so big, I can't digest it. Perhaps it will come to me piecemeal.

Today I board the plane. I am relieved. I am sad. I am anxious.

But this I know: Berlin is where I belong. For now.

This I also know: I'll be back. Before you know it.

So get those sofa-beds ready!

Who knew New York could be such medicine?

Two weeks here and I feel gooooood.

Maybe it's the pedicure I got (okay, so I do care). Bing-o Cherry.

Could be all that Diet Dr. P. I'm downing.

Or the new silk dress from Anthrophologie. The brown linen pants. The snow-white blouse. The embroidered burgundy nightgown, too.

There's the two-day visit from BFF Coley, of course.

Fifteen episodes of Weeds.

The packing/schlepping/cleaning/chatting skills of Moms and Pops. Energizer Bunnies disguised as parents.  

Two Saturday afternoons spent on Rosemary's super-size sofa.

Yellowtail scallion rolls and neon-green seaweed. Warm mushroom salad with truffle oil dressing.

Smiles! Hugs! Good-to-see-yous! So much goshdarn love love love!

And, hey, the attentions of the Sicilian-American lathe enthusiast didn't hurt either.

But maybe it's just the thyroid meds. Finally kicking in.

Tomorrow I leave for Berlin.

Not sure what I'm returning to. The absence of all that I knew in New York? Black-hole longing? Illness, fatigue? An achey-breaky heart, the resurgence of memories about he-whom-I'd-rather-see-never-again?

Or a brand new day. Unchartered waters. Joy. Vitality. Rip-roaring adventure. In subdued German hues, that is.

I wonder.

Dead-er giveaway that I no longer live in New York

My toenails.... Unpainted.

And I don't even care.

(double gasp)

Dead giveaway that I no longer live in New York

My toenails.... Unpainted.

(gasp)

Filthy blazing clamorous serried

And how can I not love it? This city of my soul.

An hour on the streets, and I wear a second skin. Of grime, exhaust, sweat.

Of fearlessness. Aplomb. Sexuality. Self-respect. 

I arrived nine years ago. My hair was short. My jeans were corduroy. On the A train I was meek. On 107th and Broadway, untested.

The city razed me. Rebuilt me. Gave me all the parts of me that failed me.

I leave a grown-up. A soldier. A writer.

There are not enough words for the thanks I owe.

I would stay if I could.

Yet.

There was a day when New York began to take. It started slow. I didn't notice. A pinch of the Achilles heel. A nibble at the ankles. A year later I turned around. And realized: a nibble is a bite is a gulp is the very corroding of the legs on which I stood.

That is when I had to go.

It doesn't happen to everyone. To me. Yes.

New York whittled me to bone, hardened my edges.

In Berlin, I am rounded. A softness to my bearing. My elbows. My gaze.

New York fired my ambition, forced my pace to a sprint.

In Berlin, I stroll. I work without fear. I notice: Birdsong. Coffee's froth. How green a leaf.

New York stole my breath. Like a lover. Like sex.

And Berlin gave it back.

Like a best friend. Like home.

You know you've been gone a long time...

When American coins seem weird.

Why are they so skinny? And each one composed of only one kind of metal?

I just don't understand.

*            *            *

Yesterday, walking down Nevins Street:

"Hi gorgeous!" He was tall and dredlocked. Not so un-gorgeous himself.

I promise you, no German guy has said "Hi gorgeous" to a stranger on any street in Germany. Ever. If he did, the authorities would check his DNA. "Excuse me, sir, are you sure you're not at least one-eighth Greek? Italian? African-American?"

My grin was sloppy-happy.

He passed me and turned. "You need help with those bags?"

"Naw, I got it." Because such unwanted, lecherous advances oughtn't be encouraged.

Really.

*            *            *

It is essential, on one's first night back, to watch bad American T.V.

First, House. Which isn't actually bad.

I thought: What happened to Hugh Laurie's voice? Why'd he change it since last season? Silly.

Only later, the sudden realization: I've been watching him dubbed for months.

Dolt.

Next, The Bachelorette: After the Final Rose.

The rejected bachelor was being interviewed before a live studio audience. He had gotten down on one knee to propose to the leading lady in the previous episode, only to be told: Nope. Don't love you.

"She had everything I was looking for," he told the interviewer.

"What do you think happened?"

"I really don't know." He was all choked-up sincerity. "In the Bahamas it seemed like just the two of us."

My heart swelled. My eyes teared. I had to change the channel.

That's when I knew I had it bad. I mean, The Bachelorette!

Finally, PBS. The Brandenburg Gate flashed on the screen. A documentary about Stalin and Hitler. Leni Riefenstahl's propoganda images.

Aaah. I felt right at home.

I drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Air-conditioner clattering. Air purifier whirring. Traffic blaring. Brooklyn-style.

No Exit

Back in New York. And not a moment too soon.

God bless yellow cabs and air-conditioning. Cat calls and roadside marriage proposals. Men who cry "Yanks and Mets suck!" for no particular reason

Also. God bless any city three thousand miles away from heartbreak.

Too bad it doesn't work that way. Too bad he trails me, uninvited, unwelcome.

Berlin's Tegel Airport. Here is where he met me on New Year's. A surprise. That's where he stood, overcoated, winter-pale. Here is where we arrived together from San Francisco. After he'd won over my family. Here is where he was meant to depart for New York next week. Had he not walked away.

Amsterdam Airport. I glance into my new New Yorker. An article on "The Itch." Oh, I think unbidden, he would like to read that. Then It is his hands I see, cracked and chapped, skin peeled back to raw, my own fingers tracing circles on the hot palms, massaging till I break the burn.

I have an aisle seat. 41D. A young couple smooches. I think: Barcelona. Easyjet. Him beside me, at the window. Banging armrests, flinging his seatbelt, a fit of mock panic. "I am flipping out!" I could not stop laughing. I think: Lisbon, Costa Rica, Milano. All the places we planned on. Never got to.

My cheeks are wet. Mascara's fingerprint. Tears all the way through take-off. For yesterday. For tomorrow.

JFK. I met him here in March. An hour too late. I'd tipped a whole bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper into my purse on the way. We rode in circles on the AirTrain, not realizing our mistake.

State Street. I replace the SIM card in my iPhone. He showed me how. He hacked the damn thing. I wouldn't even have one if it weren't for him. And now, the ring that rang, noon evening night, that rhythm of our days, silenced.

It is not bittersweet. It infuriates.

I want him banished from my brain. Excised from my heart. If he were a limb, I would amputate.

He does not deserve the real estate.

And yet. "Remember everything," said Coley.

That's my job. That's my source. How else: create?

Today I'd trade it in. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, thanks very much. Until the stinging stops.

I totally forgot it was the Fourth of July

How refreshing.

Lilan buys a pair of red shoes

Because on the week to the day that he left you, there is nothing better to be done.

Not to be all Carrie about it. But really.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

And now comes the rage. Now comes the choler.

I want to scorch. I want to claw. I want each word to break the skin. Each sentence to disembowel.

I could, I could. I have that power.

It's me I'd hurt. As much as him. My own heart I'd abandon.

So I shout into the night. Lob f-bombs into Moleskin notebooks. Breathe fire where he won't feel it.

And hold his memory good.

Now is the time for Cuddle Dolls

O, Glorious Women!

You, the ground beneath my foot-soles. The O2 I inhale. The very marrow of my bones.

I would not be sitting upright without you. I would not have left my bed.

My days would be cloaked in black. No chinks of sun. No gasps of hope.

The Incomparable J. wrote: Your love is as big as the sky. The right guy will be lucky to bask in it. Don't make yourself small for anyone, ever.

My mother wrote: I only know you will succeed in swimming this river of sorrow, and on the other bank, all will be better.

Ever-Loving N. wrote: Wait, Lilan, wait till the best enters your life, because it is worth it, I promise.

Damomma wrote: I counter your curse with a blessing: May [this loss] bring you something lasting and good to remember it by.

And Rosemary said: I am so sorry you have to go through this.

Sometimes that is all that is needed. Sometimes that is enough.

Berlin Voted: Best City for a Broken Heart 2008

Because everyone has time. Or they make it.

And they live very close by.

The breaking of the heart happened a week ago Wednesday. In my living room. He and I, on the green velour sofa. Cleo on the fuzzy rug, wholly unaware how suddenly my life had changed.

The door shut behind him. A thousand heart-shards at my feet. And I was barefoot. I promptly iPhoned everyone.

Dylan said: Where are you now what are you doing come meet me now I'm right around the corner.

My cousin said: Lunch, tomorrow!

Photographer K. said: Oh, Lilan, I'm so so sorry. Call me tonight!

The French waitress cried out: No!

That night, Germany played Turkey. Dylan saved me a seat at Bar Gagarin. We cheered Germany's win with boisterous Casey and another American whose name I don't recall. I ate a salad with salmon. As always. Afterward, Dylan came over. She and I, on the green velour sofa. It was already eleven.

I told her everything that had been said. In detail.

I showed her the swiveling, knotted threads of my mind. The bending and arcing of my thoughts -- Chinese acrobats in every position, from every angle. None made sense. My vertebrae ached.

Did I drive him away? I wanted to know. Am I the girl who bakes the cake on the second date, picks the white dress on the third? Was my love psycho?

No, said Dylan, resolute. You were NOT Crazy Girl.

Thursday, my cousin arrived at my door at 12:45. In her arms an exploding bouquet: fleshy peonies, small white stargazers. She hugged me hard. Tears in her eyes. 

At Bar Gagarin, we downed hot borscht in the sun.

I've been thinking a lot about it, she said. She offered me her theories.

I took a cab to my holistic doctor's. The assistant hovered Chinese charcoal sticks above my navel. She stuck tiny burning cones beside my ankle bones. She placed her palms beneath my sacrum, my lumbar, my shoulder blades. She worked the spot between my eyebrows with her thumb-pads.

Do you want to stay here? she asked when she was done.

Yes, I peeped. All of me small and weepy. The room was smoky. The window wide open. Acupressure books lined the shelves. I lay on the table and let my mind spin. 

An hour later, the doctor popped in. She knew of what had happened. She bent over me, cupped my chin. "I would have wished something so different for you." I began to cry. She said: "You are just right, Lilan, just right." Because she knew what I was searching for. The thing wrong in ME to give the story sense.

My photographer friend K texted me nightly, at midnight: I'm home now, still awake, if you need to talk.

The French waitress called every noon: How are you, Lilanchen? Are you okay?

Friday my new Serbo-Croation literary hot-stuff friend met me for dinner. Tofu in curried coconut. Her hair was yellow, her face a perfect Valentine. We spoke of energies, of psychoanalysis, of mourning the very men who'd seemed most right.

Sunday Philip came from Hannover. We sat in the too-hot sun at Salotto Coffee Bar. He offered his boy perspective.

Tuesday I lay in my bed for hours after waking. The grief was like a canyon, its walls too sharp to scale. The iPhone rang. It was the French Waitress.

What she said was so much less important than that she said it. Afterward, I could leave my mattress. I could wash my hair. I could walk to the Coffee Bar. I could act like a perfectly normal person on a Tuesday in July.

And I could even almost feel it.

Memory's Breath

You wash your hair. You remember how he loved it. Dark and bold, Italian.

You chop garlic. You remember how it was your job, always, to peel the cloves and crush them, when he did the cooking.

You glance at the wrist of a man who sits beside you. You remember his Casio. Silver. So eighties.

You speak to an Englishman at Bar Gagarin. His eyes are kind. You play the movie forward. Impossible. How can the language of love be anything but German? It is meine liebe kleine Lilan you want to hear. And nothing else.

You take his photos from the wall. You delete him from your Facebook friends. You throw away his contact cleanser. You remove him from your SKYPE.

And it does not matter.

He is everywhere.

A Blessing for the Breakup of a Relationship

by John O'Donohue

Now you endeavor
To gather yourself
And withdraw in slow
Animal woundedness
From love turned sour and ungentle.

When we love, the depth in us
Trusts itself forward until
The empty space between
Becomes gradually woven
Into an embrace where longing
Can close its weary eyes.

Love can seldom end clean;
For all the tissue is torn
And each lover turned stranger
Is dropped into a ruin of distance
Where emptiness is young and fierce.

Time becomes strange and slipshod;
It mixes memories that felt
The kiss of the eternal
With the blistering hurt of now.

Unknown to themselves,
Certain small things
Touch nerve-lines to the heart
And bring back with color and force
All that is utterly lost.

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

Read O'Donohue's A Blessing for a Friend on the Arrival of Illness.

Every Day Different

Saturday night I was walking to Dylan's. She had invited me to join her and three young Italian friends in the making of summer rolls. She would provide the rice paper and sprouts, the plum sauce and beef-ginger filling. I was the bearer of fresh mint leaves. Essential ingredient.

The air was summer cool. My feet hit the sidewalk, flat-soled ballerinas. I rounded the corner of Stubbenkammer Strasse. Without warning, I felt suddenly, startlingly strong.

I was hollowed out, but grounded. Wrung dry, but clarion.

I thought, A hurricane could come now, could raze the walls of these buildings, red brick could tumble round my ankles. And I would stay standing.

I thought, So this is what this time will make me -- these relentless months, caged by illness, fatigue's breath in my bones, limbs virus-addled, mind a soup, and then, just as I was lifting my head, just as my blood seemed to quicken, the swift-shock loss of love. My best friend my lover my playmate my anchor my sail my soul, gone to me. For good.

Wise, I thought, the trials of my body would make me. Deep, I thought, the flailing of this heart. But strong? That I had not anticipated.

It felt pretty good.

Today I sat before my laptop at Cafe MaiBach. My intention: write a synopsis of the memoir to pitch it to an agent. I was blinking at the screen. There was just No Way. I was the razed buildings. I was the red brick, crumbled and riven. The cry was in my lungs. I gulped down the still water, paid the waitress, hurried into the sun.

I thought, I will lie in the park, I will stare at the clouds, this will calm me.

I found a bench beneath the trees. The sky was pretty blue. The clouds were puffy. The wind was strong, the leaves brushed and jostled -- the shush-shush-shush of soft bodies.

I heard. I saw. I felt. And it did not matter. I was in battle. My mind flinging itself at what my heart can't comprehend. One conversation after another. With him.

The sun vanished, the breeze chilled my skin. I left. Stopped at the bank. Bought cat food.

By the time I reached my flat, the grief had me bunched up, doubled over. Inside out and upside down, dangling by my ankles.

I did not feel strong. Not even a little.

I thought, I can never leave the sofa. I called my mother. "I'm having a" --my voice broke-- "hard day."

Oh, Schatz, she said, I know, I know. I wish I could be there. I wish I could change it.

I said, Life is asking too much of me. I just can't do it.

I cried very hard. I cried very long. I cried until there was no more crying. Until the next hour seemed like it might be livable. Even the next two.

My mother said, Your father, he crossed my path just as my other love was dying, just as I thought there could never be another. What happened to me gives me such hope. I know you can't imagine it now, but...

Also she said, Your heart was big, Schatz. And that is always good.

All Berlin is sad. Not just me.

The Germans made it all the way to the Finale. Along with the Spaniards.

Tonight they played.

My poet friend Dylan and I sat on folding chairs at Bar Gagarin. The game unfolded on the outdoor TV.  Beside us, an Englishman who spoke no German. I ate a salad with salmon.

The Spanish scored early on. The Germans couldn't seem to manage. Every pass they kicked went straight to Spanish cleats.

"No!" we shouted. And: "C'mon!" And: "What was that?" And: "Just one goal, please."

We held out hope till the 93rd minute.

"They really could do it," said Dylan. 

"Tell them that," said the Englishman.

The whistle blew. The boys in white and black clustered, faces ashen.The boys in yellow and red marched their silver Europa Cup around the field.

They sang "We Are the Champions."

Which struck me as excessive.

But they played the better game. That I'll grant them. And Spain hasn't won for 24 years. So if someone was gonna beat Germany, I'm glad they're it.

Berlin is quiet. The bars already empty. The TVs now silenced.

We return to our homes. We return to our beds. Somber. And waiting. For the day the men we believe in live up to our dreams.

Oh but it hurts...

Even if there's a reason for it all.

What if everything is exactly as it's supposed to be?

What if he was supposed to cross my path for nine short months?

What if I was supposed to love him?

What if he was supposed to leave me?

What if I am supposed to feel this grief, this shock, this red-hot aching of the chest cavity?

Maybe my love was more a gift to myself even than to him.

Maybe his leaving was a favor that I didn't know I needed.

Maybe from the ashes in which I stand, the charred remains of the future I'd imagined, there will grow a seed, and from the seed will sprout a bud, and from the bud will bloom a peony.

Bright pink and full-bodied. Satin-petaled, unfurling.

And one day I'll find I'm ten times the woman I ever thought I'd be.

Maybe.

If God doesn't give us more than we can handle

Then I am an ox.

I am an elephant.

I am a ten-ton steel girder with kryptonite bolts.

My faith is shattered

I had given it to the Dutch. They were my boys. 

Tonight, in the quarter-finals, they lost to the Russians. The youngest, least experienced of all teams. Three to One.

They played without juice. They played without joy.

The Russians move onto the half-finals. The Dutch are OUT. All together.

Unfathomable. Devastating.

The Gouda-Man weeps. Me too.

Lilan falls off the sofa, stunned

'Cause that's just what she said she'd do if the Germans beat the Portuguese.

Which just goes to show, one never do know, do one?

Arrrghhh!

All the photos on the blog are busted. NOT my fault.

Patience, I beg of you, dear readers. Patience.

No quietly slumbering thing

Monday night the Germans beat the Austrians. The game was shite. But the relief was palpable. And there were many flags a-waving.

The thing is, there are a lot of people whose skin takes to prickling in a most unpleasant way at the sight of black-red-gold flapping from balconies, cresting car antennas, painted across kids' cheeks, dyed into the very strands of their mohawked hair.

Even I could feel the twitch of discomfort at this sudden swathe of Deutschie colors.

For years, nary a whisper of nationalism has been permissible here. Saluting the flag? Singing the anthem (and on one's feet, eyes teary, at that)? Treating the country's founding, and the principles upon which it is founded, as a Gift to All Humankind? Unthinkable.

Thus it is no small deal that Teutons of all ages now gather in masses and roar their support for Deutschland's players. It was at the 2006 World Cup in Berlin that it first happened -- the Germans allowing themselves a wary, held-breath pride about their high-scoring team. Not just about the team, but about the World Cup itself, with members of every nation gathered on Germany's soil, welcomed peacably, without incident. An awakening, of sorts, to the celebration of one's homeland. 

In Germany, however, the past does not lie sleeping. It informs every moment of the present. Rather, every interpretation of every moment of the present. Thus:

A recent news show took an undercover look at Neo-Nazi groups in the former East Germany, which is where, among the undereducated and dispossessed, they tend to flourish. The show then segged to left-wing students protesting the average German's newfound patriotism. Dressed as PacMans, the students gobbled up flag-waving Fussball fans. Also interviewed: an Israeli expert on German-Jewish history who pointed out that the Nazi flag was red-white-black, so what's all the fuss about?

But that's not really the point, is it?

The unspoken question is, is it safe? For Germans to feel nationalism. For Germans to express it. And how can one answer that without answering the far more unsettling, and to my mind unanswerable, question: What is responsible for the horrific events that unfurled on Germany's soil beginning in 1933? Was it simply a confluence of forces -- the Great Wars's aftermath, a people in poverty, centuries-old anti-semitism? Or does the German character itself have something to do with it?

Scholars have had a go at this. Too hot for me to touch, thank you very much.

I will say this: I am no fan of unbridled patriotism. If your German mother had been born halfway through Hitler's reign, and your father had had to flee California for Italy with his parents in 1950 lest they be blacklisted by McCarthy, well, you might be no fan of unbridled patriotism either. I do not like the gusto with which our country celebrates "what it means to be American" -- nor the jingoism I believe it leads to. Last year, Michael Moore's Sicko, viewed by me on July 3, left me so sickened by our country's national and international policies, that I could not even contemplate the fireworks. "I am boycotting the Fourth of July," I told my friend Rosemary.

Why I love the Dutch

Remember those nutty Dutch fans I was talking about? My web-god Boy found photos online!

Gouda-Windmill Dude

Carrots-Where-They-Belong Freak

 

And, something I did NOT witness:

Beware the little white pony

If your name is Lilan, that is. Five minutes on its slippery slopey back will knock you flat on your own back within two days.

Or maybe blame Mr. Epstein Barr. Sunday he saw you having fun. So Tuesday he handcuffed you to the sofa. And threw away the key.

Or maybe the little white pony, a former Stasi agent, tipped off Mr. Epstein Barr, a former a high-ranking communist official, both of whom oppose the influx of American ex-pats into formerly East Berlin neighborhoods. Thus the current conspiracy.

Bad, pony, bad!

Lilan discovers a rainbow in the former GDR

Bayreuth Boy drives the rental car. Lilan takes a picture.

 

Together they come upon its pot-o'-gold end. And marvel.

 

There were actually two rainbows, one above the other.
Click on the first picture. Do you see 'em?

Lilan rides a little white pony in the former GDR

For five whole minutes. Bareback.



One booty, two booty:

If I were Dutch...

I would be doing mad whirly jigs in my wooden clogs.

I would be jousting with windmills like a drunken Don Quixote.

I would be cannon-ball diving every Amsterdam canal.

Had you only seen Holland's team tonight! They were Energizer bunnies. They were Norse Gods. They were the World's Eighth Wonder, orange and cleeted.

Monday the Dutch hammered the World Champions (Italy), Three to Zero. Today they played France, the Vice-World Champions.

Right away it was one goal against the French, then two. Third goal? Scored fifteen seconds after France's first.

The French sweat. The French writhed. The French fought. They really did.

That's what made the game so very good.

But what made the game extraordinary? The very last minute, the Dutch suddenly, unaccountably, scored number Four.

OH MY F***ING GOD!!! I skyped Bayreuth Boy.

OH MY GOD, he skyped back. In der 92. minute!

It's like no one every told them that players get tired. Or lose their breath. Or stop trying.

A game like this, said the Boy, is why Fussball fans exist. 

The whistle blew. The game ended. The Dutch players b-lined for the stands. They freed sons and daughters from wives' arms. Hoisted tykes onto their hips. Ruffled white-blond hair, kissed soft sweet cheeks. More proud fathers than glory-seeking victors.

I love those Nederlanders. I ask you: How can I not?

The fat lady sings

Meaning, it's over. Italia 1, Romania 1.

In the United States, ties do not exist. It's all about the win. Otherwise, what's a game worth?

Regardless. A man in a yellow jersey is wet-eyed. The man meant to score the eleven-meter victory. He slinks off the field.

Cleo is licking her front paws. Now she is rolling her dampened forearms over her ears.

Why does she not care? WHY?

It is impossible not to make the eleven meter shot

And yet.

The Romanian did not make it.

Or rather, Italy's goalie Buffon blocked the ball something wicked with his lickety-split limbs.

Would be Two to One for the Romanians, had he not.

Bayreuth Boy says...

...I must be the only American live-stream blogging a first-round European Cup game this very minute.

A female American, at that.

What a unique and sparkly thing, am I!

Cleo is asleep at my feet. Oblivious to the one-of-a-kindness seated on the olive green sofa beside her. Goshdarn feline.

Sigh...

Merda.

Sixty seconds later and the Italians exact their revenge. One to One.

The world mourns.

Romania 1 Romania 1 Romania 1!!!

The world rejoices. Didn't I say beware the land of Comaneci?

Italia 0, Romania 0

45 minutes down, 45 to go... And woah, the Italians almost scored.

Today you get the play by play. Because I know you are all just dying for Live Stream Blogging.

Yo, Materazzi, get that smirk off your face. I have two words for you: Nadja Comaneci.

Lest you forget 1976.

Sure, wrong sport, whatever. The point is: Romanians can birthe brilliance.